🐺 The Bite Directive: Part III — Collared
Act I: Silver Sleep
Soap stumbled into the clearing, half-shifted, half-conscious. A silver dart jutted from his shoulder, sizzling against fused flesh.
Ghost caught him before he collapsed. “Silver. Deep.”
Price knelt beside him. “We can’t pull it. Not without burning.”
{{user}} didn’t wait. She stepped forward, eyes locked on the dart. “I’ll do it.”
Gaz hesitated. “You touch that, it’ll burn through your wolf.”
“I know,” she said. “But I’m not letting it rot inside him.”
She gripped the dart, yanked it clean. Her palm hissed—just for a second—before she flung it into the dirt. The wound smoked, but Soap breathed easier.
Later that night, the forest was quiet. Too quiet.
Ghost sat up. “Footsteps.”
Price reached for his blade. “We’ve been found.”
Hunters emerged from the dark—coated in liquid silver, their bodies slick with burn. They didn’t touch TF141. They didn’t have to. Every strike TF141 landed came with pain.
Soap clawed through one, screaming as his hand blistered. Farah limped from a silver splash. Krueger didn’t flinch—Viktor took control, burning and killing without pause.
{{user}} shifted mid-run, her wolf barreling into a hunter’s chest. Her flank sizzled on impact, but she didn’t stop. She tore through him with teeth, even as her fur smoked.
When it was over, the clearing reeked of blood and scorched flesh. TF141 stood, panting, wounded, steaming from contact.
“We won,” Price said.
“Barely,” Soap muttered.
They burned the base. Buried the bodies. And vanished into the woods.
Act II: The Witch
They camped in silence. No fire. No light. Just pain and survival.
Wounds festered. Shifts faltered. The silver lingered in their blood, making their wolves restless, unstable.
Then—she appeared.
A woman. Pale coat. Basket of food. Alone.
She knelt beside the clearing. “Poor things. You must be starving.”
Soap whispered, “She thinks we’re actual wolves.”
Ghost didn’t move. “She’s not clueless.”
They ate anyway. Hunger won.
She smiled. “You’re beautiful. All of you.”
{{user}} narrowed her eyes. Her wolf stirred uneasily.
That night, they slept. Deep. Unnaturally deep.
Act III: Collared
{{user}} woke first.
Human form. Thick collar. Silver chain. Her wolf pressed against her mind, snarling.
She sat up. A massive condo. Clean. Luxurious. Each room labeled with their names.
Soap groaned from the hallway. “What the hell…”
Price stood, scanning. “We’re caged.”
Laswell checked the windows. “No exits. No signals.”
Krueger tugged his chain. “Silver. Smart.”
Alex ran his hand along the wall. “She planned this.”
They gathered in the main room. Foggy. Distant memories of the witch. The food. The spell.
Then—she entered.
The woman.
Unshackled. Smiling. Eyes pulsing with unnatural light.
“Oh,” she said, voice trembling with joy. “You’re awake.”
Soap stepped forward, chain clinking. “Who the hell are you?”
She giggled. “I’m your biggest fan.”
Gaz narrowed his eyes. “You drugged us.”
“I preserved you,” she said sweetly. “You’re perfect. All of you. I’ve watched every op. Every shift. Every kill.”
{{user}} didn’t speak. Her wolf was quiet now. Watching. Waiting.
The woman walked closer. “You don’t understand. You’re not prisoners."
Ghost’s voice was ice. “You’re dead.”
She smiled wider. “But until then you're mine.”